


The Wrong Trousers

by DementedPixie



Series: Demented Pixie's Pros Fic [18]
Category: The Professionals (TV 1977)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-02-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:20:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22650898
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DementedPixie/pseuds/DementedPixie
Summary: You never really know who might be knocking on your doorPLEASE DO NOT RE-POST THIS STORY ON ANY OTHER PLATFORM.
Relationships: William Bodie/Ray Doyle
Series: Demented Pixie's Pros Fic [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1264832
Kudos: 9





	The Wrong Trousers

**Author's Note:**

> My name is Demented Pixie and I’m a Pros fan, but that hasn’t always been my name. If you knew me as In Love With Both and you’re a friend, then you’ll already know why I left the fandom some years back. But, hey, a girl can change her mind, and I have therefore decided to re-share my Professionals fanfiction on this amazing Archive – no changes, no improvements, no alterations. I’ll be posting them just as they were written. No comments, no trolls, and no betas. Just me and my stories. I’m sharing them so that they can take their place in the archive, but I’m also sharing them for the Pros generation, for those future generations yet to discover Bodie and Doyle, and for Sandra, who has never ceased waving pompoms for all Pros fanfiction writers.  
> The following story was written by me in 2012.

It was a cold, wet and blustery night. The wind made strange howling noises down the chimney as Mark threw more coals on the fire and he shivered, glad he was home safe for the night with no reason to venture back out. Hiring this deserted cottage for the winter in order to concentrate on his writing had seemed like a good idea at the time however, he had to admit, he was beginning to feel isolated and lonely. He really wasn’t sure he was going to last the course, regardless of his Publisher’s demands. The cottage was a perfect foil for the murder mystery he was writing, but if he heard one more strange noise he knew it would be the last straw and he’d be on his bike on his way home before you could say ‘Who Killed Agatha Christie’.

His nerves on edge, it was almost inevitable that at that precise moment there came a heavy knocking at the oak front door. 

He shook his head, laughing at the dramatic effect of the moment despite the immediate fear that coursed through his body. This is what writing was all about, wasn’t it? Using your own life experiences to be able to tell stories to others? 

Pulling himself together, he went to answer the door. 

As he flung the door open, he found the perfect crime plot waiting for him on the doorstep. Two men stood there, one unconscious, curly head lolling forward, and the other tall and dark, struggling to hold the first man up. They were both muddy and drenched by the revolting weather and looked completely exhausted.

“My God!” Mark exclaimed.

“Please,” asked the dark haired man, with some urgency in his voice. “Can we come in? My partner is hurt.”

Mark stared at him, mixed feelings of concern and trepidation running through him simultaneously. 

Seeming to understand his hesitation the man tried again, almost losing his grip on his friend as he struggled to get something out of his pocket. “We are legit.”

Mark glanced at the damp ID card being shown him and immediately gave a huge sigh of relief. “Of course,” he said. “Come in.”

As the unconscious man started to slip Mark instinctively stepped forward and ducked under his arm, helping to take his weight. Working together they all made it to the fireside, carefully placing the injured man on the sofa, his sopping wet curls falling back against the cushions.

The dark haired man stood dripping by the fire, his hands visibly shaking. 

“Take off your coat,” said Mark, stepping forward to help him. “What do I call you?”

“I’m Bodie. CI5. He’s Doyle, my partner.” Bodie shrugged out of his wet coat and gave it to Mark and then knelt at Doyle’s side, reaching out to check an angry wound on his upper arm. 

Mark watched in horror, realising for the first time in all his years of being a crime writer that he was finally looking at a real bullet wound. 

“Can…can I help in some way?” he stammered. 

Bodie looked up at him, rain water still dripping from his hair. “Do you have a first aid kit of any kind?”

“Yes. There’s one in the kitchen.”

“And some boiling water, please. So I can clean this up a bit.”

Mark nodded, immensely grateful he was being given something easy to do. He left Bodie to work on Doyle’s injury and went through to the kitchen. 

Working on auto pilot he filled the kettle and set it on the stove to heat. Then he began the search for first aid equipment, throwing open various kitchen cupboards as he went. He knew it was here somewhere…

A thought suddenly crossed his mind about there being some clean towels upstairs in the airing cupboard, so he turned to go back to the lounge. 

Luckily for all concerned, he had the sense to look through the gap before throwing the kitchen door open. And what he saw made his blood run cold. 

The two men were just where he had left them but something didn’t seem right. Bodie was leaning over Doyle who, it appeared, had come around a little. He was wincing in pain, his head was moving and he was muttering things to Bodie in a low voice. 

Things that Mark couldn’t hear. 

But he could hear Bodie. 

“I don’t give a damn about you, you bastard.” The voice was hissing, evil. “The only reason I’m keeping you alive is because you’re my ticket out of this. You give me any trouble and I’ll kill you. No hesitation. You need to believe that.”

Bodie then towered over Doyle and, appallingly, pushed hard on the bullet wound with both hands. With an intense cry of pain Doyle collapsed back on the sofa, once again unconscious.

Mark stepped back into the kitchen, covering his own mouth with his hand.

Bodie had said they were partners? Hadn’t he? Why was he treating him this way? 

Mark tried to think straight. What should he do? The phone was back in the lounge with Bodie. The rear door was in the kitchen but if he left wouldn’t Bodie get suspicious? He might decide to kill Doyle and make a run for it. 

Mark had no weapons to hand, except perhaps a heavy copper frying pan or a few carving knives. But he was no CI5 agent - he was a writer. He was, as his father called him, ‘A Shandy drinking Southern poofter who wouldn’t know a hard days’ work if it bit him on the arse’. 

He was certainly no match for Bodie, but somehow he had to save Doyle and himself from this terrible man. 

At that moment the whistle on the kettle started to squeak sharply and, without warning, the kitchen door opened and Bodie walked in, making Mark step back with a gasp.

“What’s wrong?” asked Bodie.

“Nothing,” said Mark, his throat dry. “Sorry, nothing.”

“Any news on the first aid kit?”

“Yes. I mean no. I’m not sure. It’s here somewhere.”

Bodie gave a wry smile. “Great.”

“Sorry.” Mark backed away and started looking in cupboards again. “Here. It’s here.” He pulled out a green plastic box and gave it to Bodie. “I’ll get the water.”

“Thanks.” Bodie looked at him, suspicion clear on his face. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Yes, of course.” Mark took a deep breath. He knew if he wasn’t careful he was going to ruin everything. “Shall we go look after your partner?”

Bodie nodded and together they went back to the lounge. 

As calmly as he could, Mark assisted Bodie as he tended to Doyle. To the casual observer there seemed to be nothing wrong at all as Bodie cleaned the wound and bandaged it as best he could before covering his still unconscious partner with a blanket. He looked the very picture of a concerned man whose best friend needed his help.

But Mark knew different. 

He watched every move Bodie made, wondering what would happen if Doyle woke up right now. He hoped, for both their sakes, that he wouldn’t.

The fire spat as some rain drops found their way down the chimney and Mark glanced at the coal scuttle, noticing it was empty. He rose to his feet and picked it up. 

Bodie looked up at him, sharply attentive.

“Where are you going?”

“We can’t let the fire go out,” said Mark. “The coal’s in the shed out the back.”

Bodie stood up and reached out for the scuttle. “I’ll go.”

A change seemed to have come over him and it appeared obvious to Mark that Bodie was beginning to become suspicious. 

He did the only thing he could do. “Of course,” he said, smiling happily. “If you want to get wet again, be my guest. I’ll stay here with the patient.”

He waited for Bodie to leave. 

As soon as he heard the rear door slam shut in the wind he knelt on the floor next to Doyle. 

“Erm,” he whispered. “If you’re going to wake up, now would be a good time.”

Doyle opened his eyes immediately. “I’ve been awake for ages,” he admitted, giving Mark a weak flicker of a smile. 

Mark was so relieved he nearly cried. “Are you really CI5?” he asked, desperate to know. 

“Yes.”

“Is he?”

“No.”

“And you really are Doyle?”

“Ray Doyle, as I live and breathe.” Doyle eyes fluttered closed. 

Mark touched Doyle’s knee. “He said his name was Bodie.”

A whistle of wind worked its way around the room, making the fire light flicker. Mark looked up, fully expecting Bodie to have returned. Their time was up.

A tall dark haired man stood in the room, clad in black from his head to his toes. With a click he armed the hand gun he was holding then smiled at Mark, blue eyes twinkling in a devilishly handsome face. 

“Ah, no,” he said. “I am Bodie.”

And he wasn’t even wet.


End file.
